Mankind and flowers

Mankind and Flowers

Like a vine slowly stretching as it grows, my fingers inched across the sticky wet soil. Every ounce of strength was required to bend my elbow so my hand could come close enough to help me raise my head. I focused on the pain from which I drew my strength. This was not difficult, for pain was pervasive, and yet reassuring for it told me I lived. I turned my head and rubbed my face against my filthy sleeve. I must open my matted eyes, and discover the fate of the millions of others. We must help one another if survival was to be an option. A red fog was my greeting. Blinking, and rubbing my eyes yet again, I strained to see past the glaring red curtain.

Oh we had been glorious in our might, and right, striding into the fray. The vilified horde we were to meet, and vanquish, could not hope to stand against us, for “God” was with us. We were the ones on the side of all that was good. This was for sure, because our leaders had told us so, and yet, somewhere in the back of my mind, I had wondered where they were, these leaders, as we marched into battle. Should not they have been here to witness our glory? Was that not what we paid them for? I cringed at my questioning thoughts for surely they were cowardly and treasonous.

The veiled red world defied my attempts at vision, and cold fear struck my heart. Blindness, was that my fate? My screams reverberated, as I called for help. Empty silence, silence, silence, was the response to my pleas. At my belt rested a canteen and the seeming hours passed while I struggled to pull it from it’s case.

Small the success which defines our hope, and the canteen sliding into my hand was such a moment.. Each cell of my being screamed for but one drop of the elixir within, and I slowly worried the cap from its mouth. Focus you fool, I told myself, for to spill this treasure was to die, and for this I was not ready. A sip, and the sponge that was my mouth sucked up the moisture. So dry not one drop reached my throat. Again damnit, again, and this produced a trickle down the cobblestone tunnel of my throat. Was ever there a greater pleasure? Nay, such a thought was pure folly, for it was not moisture which flowed, but the liquid silver stream of life itself.

Now was the time to address the scarlet curtain hung so thoughtlessly before my eyes. Three drops in each eye, and the curtain swirled into visions of eddying crimson pools. Agony, as I shook my head to clear the drops from the surface of my orbs. A sense of fire flying from my face, and the curtain became a gossmer veil. Grotesque figures now shown through the shimmering mist, and once more three drops. Now a corona of red outlined the hole through which I viewed, and that view was like hands beneath my arms lifting me to my feet, my pain forgotten at the greeting to my eyes. Like a nesting chick I clung to a branch reaching up from the ground, and surveyed the desolation stretching to the horizon.

I recalled no celebration which could have impaired my functioning, yet as a drunk I swayed before the impact. Somewhere, someone was screaming, and I sought the source. From the furtherest view, back to me, I looked, and discovered that the cries of insanity issued from my own throat. There were no twisted trees to represent the nightmare images. Quartering the vista I was met by the twisted bodies of the deceased shredded corpses of mankind. Even the steadying branch, to which I clung, was a false impression. Upon close examination it was the stiffened arm of one of the lost, and I tried to jerk my hand free. Bits of the decaying flesh stuck to my hand , and I dropped to my knees scrubbing my hand in the mud. Too late, I knew I would never be free of the clasping grasp.

For weeks I wandered, from one canteen to another, from one battle pack to another, seeking the morsel of food there-in stored. Mournful the wind whistling through the bones, and shattered dead. A ghoulish symphonic crescendo of finality, it was over, we must have won. Yes my side had won for I was the last survivor. "Sweet," was not the word for this victory. Walking on, and on through the towns and cities, I realized that those leaders had gotten included after-all. Oh yes, everybody had been sucked into the voracious conflagration.

Crazy, yes, I was crazy for the visions of my travels began to change, and no longer did the torn dead people meet my eyes. Each day brought a fresh array of color with which to greet me. Now it was the flowers, which I sought. These survivors of splashing color springing up through the rotting souls, and bones of the deceased.

An ever changing bouquet, every color, every shape, and I reveled in their proliferation. Like a new marching army they filled the landscape. A niggling thought started without bidding, and exactly when this occurred I cannot recall. Truth be known, it did not matter when it started, for what was, without refute, was the truth of it’s conclusion.

Tears were my constant companion at this enlightment. “There is no winning in war. There is only dying.” The impact of this folly caused me to fall to my knees. Face-to-face with a Sunflower I asked the question.

“Why do you not hate the flowers of different shape and color? Why do you not pull up your roots and march into war? Damn you, answer me. Surely you feel the sirens cry to set the world right for your kind? Where are your leaders to point out the hated difference, and to direct your cleansing efforts?"

I became aware of the stupidity of my quest for these answers. After-all, everybody loved the flowers, and touted their beauty. Their enigmatic silence provided the answer, and I heard it clearly.

“We are God’s creations, and therefore we must accept that the differences are God’s business. It is not our place to become involved in God’s business. Look about you, and view what he has wrought for your pleasure. Now think you this, ‘It was to you he gave responsibility for its safe keeping, and it is you to which shall accrue the cost of failure.”

So simple it knocked me, yet again, to my knees, and I heard my voice say. “Lord, why could we not see the flowers called man? From whence came the blindness to the beauty of each individuals being. Each specie shared this beauty of nuance, and it was only man who failed to accept your gift." Oh we marveled at the diversity of the lower species, as we called them. We housed them in zoos, and in gardens. We sought them out and were amazed by the diversity and color. Yes the pleasure they provided was legion, yet we fell short in our amazement by one specie. Our egos let us assume we could make it “right,” and our logic failed to realize you already had. Lord please forgive us, and to the next caregiver I give my charge.

“Get to your feet. “Adam,” for to you I gave a task.” My head reverberated with the resounding words. Had it really heard them? Again the voice in my mind exploded, “Do not forget your own words, for there are some who saw, and they await your arrival. You do not get off so easy, for you will try, and try again until you get it right. For it is my work you are to do, and failure will be a cost too dear to consider. If these who have fallen could tell you, they would gladly have another chance. Well, you are their other chance. Responsibility is that you can never expect another to fulfill for you. It is your job, now get off your knees and do it.”

“Maybe this chronicle will pass down through the ages, who can say. As-for-me, I wander the years, the centuries, the eons, seeking those who saw.” With each step I chant my lessons, for I would not want to fail again.